


The Fell of the Lion, The Fleece of the Sheep, (or The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)

by Eshnoazot



Series: Ineffable Bureaucracy [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Acceptable, Aziraphale and Crowley are OFFENDED, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Multi, Murder Husbands, Other, Questioning, Religious Discussion, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, Tolerance, Trauma Recovery, William Blake - Freeform, embracing, faith - Freeform, protective friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2020-10-28 03:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20772062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eshnoazot/pseuds/Eshnoazot
Summary: If the Great Plan had been theirs – why did Heaven insist on it? If it had been Heavens – why had Hell blindly followed it? The Fall was the birth of demon kind, the aftermath of a rebellion no-one could remember. Why had they rebelled? What was so different between Heaven and Hell anyway; they seemed to be a mirror image. If they were just the same picture, coloured a little darker, then why had they Fallen?If the ineffable Plan was going to happen, regardless of whatever they thought, what the fuck was even the point.





	1. The Argument

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ira_Dunfort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ira_Dunfort/gifts).

> Title is taken from a book by William Blake, entitled “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.” 
> 
> This book largely influenced what this series is, and what it became. This fic was the very first thing that I envisioned for this series before I decided that it should be the final piece and not the first. I’d accidentally written the final chapter before the prelude. This fic is probably the best written out of the series, but also tonally a little different. This fic has been edited along the way, as I made changes throughout the series, and tried to keep a little more consistency!
> 
> The specific paragraph that inspired this series was this:
> 
> “Without Contraries is no progression. Attraction and Repulsion,  
Reason and Energy, Love and Hate are necessary to Human existence.
> 
> From these contraries spring what the religious call Good & Evil.  
Good is the passive that obeys Reason. Evil is the active springing  
from Energy. Good is Heaven. Evil is Hell.”
> 
> Not to get all philosophical, but the message of this series has always been this: progression in life is impossible without contraries.
> 
> That’s also why this fic is the only one with chapters. Sometimes you must be a little contrary to what has been established. :P

Beelzebub was passed out between Dagon’s meticulous pile of plastic rings and 1950’s magazines when Dagon frowned so deeply her skin began to twist and pull on scabbed-over skin. The movement caused fish scales to dig uncomfortably into her skin, and she leaned into it by frowning even more deeply until it was cutting flesh. Beelzebub was three days into what might have been Hell’s first bender, and Dagon was started to get sick of this whole business.

Everything had been fine until some _hoity-toity angelic fucker_ had turned up and made a mess of things. Beelzebub was taking weekly lunch breaks, being friendly with Angels, and now they were passed out in Dagon’s carefully piled hoards of human trash.

Hastur and Ligur were similarly napping in the corner: both, side by side, eyes closed. Dagon’s pale eyes took in this scene and did a careful sweep of the room. There were half a dozen weapons around the room, and all that stood between Dagon and a nice promotion to be a fully-fledged Prince of Hell was _three seconds_ and a carefully slit throat. Hastur and Ligur wouldn’t even wake up, because Dagon could be very quiet: she’d been practising gutting fish since she’d first jumped heels first into the ocean and breathed in plankton and algae. With Hastur and Ligur dead too, Dagon could rule unopposed for a good millennium.

There was a lot of _trust_ that was being placed in this room.

Trust didn’t belong in Hell, and the realisation that Dagon _didn’t want to kill them_ made Dagon _sick to her stomach. _She didn’t know when trust had started creeping into the cruellest rings of Hell; Dagon’s scales were scar tissue from the misery that had been dripping from Hell’s tunnels in the first few years. At least one of Beelzebub’s sores had been from Dagon plunging a knife into their cheek. Hastur’s mould had been caused by Beelzebub, cramming him into a tiny crevice in Hell for a century or so – and he’d started to _rot_. Somehow, they’d all softened over time, stopped being always angry and prepared to drive a knife deep into a back, and started to drink and console each other in their shitty little offices. It wasn’t forgiveness, because all of them held grudges, really just for something to do. It was something else, something ineffably _bullshit_.

Dagon considered this and found herself crawling under her desk and dragging an old stack of newspaper to block herself from sight. Trust was like a slow creeping rot, terribly infectious, and incredibly bad for your prolonged existence. It was a painful process of getting rid of it once you had it, but without a little, it hurt you even worse. It was like a creeping blackberry bush with vicious thorns that needed to be regularly trimmed back if you still wanted to enjoy the fruits.

Either way, it cut you deeply.

Dagon chewed on her lip as she tried to think about it. She never had a _good _memory, too burned up in the Fall, because Dagon had fallen _hard_ – but she could maybe place it. Where the foreign infection had started from.

It had maybe been when Beelzebub had come home from stoking the embers of war, pale-faced and shaking from a stern rejection from the Anti-Christ who had chosen a handful of children and a dog over a throne carved from endless power and a crown forged from eternity. Beelzebub had briefed them all, what had been said, and had spoken the words – “Who created the Great Plan?”

If the Great Plan had been theirs – why did Heaven insist on it? If it had been _Heavens_ – _why_ had Hell blindly followed it? The Fall was the birth of demonkind, the aftermath of a rebellion no-one could remember. Why had they rebelled? What was so different between Heaven and Hell anyway; they seemed to be a mirror image. If they were just the same picture, coloured a little darker, then why had they_ Fallen_?

If the ineffable Plan was going to happen, regardless of whatever they thought_, what the fuck was even the point._

Beelzebub had kicked the door down as they’d left.

Dagon hadn’t fixed the hinges.

Maybe it had been when Beelzebub came storming back home, shaking with rage over the revelation that they had once been known as Raphael, Archangel of Healing. Beelzebub was a contrary image of what Raphael was remembered for; a distorted mirror image that made Dagon uncomfortable. Dagon still wasn’t sure if it was a curse or a blessing not to know who you had once been. Raphael had always been depicted with a fish at their side, and it gave Dagon pause to think about. She and Beelzebub had always been inseparable, since the Fall, backstabbing and attempted murder aside.

If Beelzebub had become a mirror image of their former self, a contrary personality, then perhaps Dagon had once-

Dagon frowned and let the thought go in an instant.

Beelzebub had staged a rebellion once, in Hell, they’d almost overthrown Satan himself until one of their inner circles had betrayed them. Beelzebub had never found out Dagon had leaked the information to the Devil, but it was exactly the kind of thing that Dagon could use to prune back the blackberries in a _snap_.

Beelzebub would never forgive them.

That – made Dagon_ feel a little sicker._

Beelzebub was still passed out, revealing just how far a demon could push a human corporation before it gave out under the effects of recreational poison. Days of willingly drinking poison, for the sake of complaining about an Angel that Beelzebub was _friends_ with. That they willingly spent time with and enjoyed the company of.

That they might _love_.

“Wake the fuck up!” Dagon was booming, as she scurried out of her hidey-hole and found herself banging loudly against the collection of old picture frames until all three stirred, “One last drink: The Angel’s Delight!”

“How do you make it?” Hastur more or less said, through bleary eyes and noxiously stained lips.

Dagon only had eyes for Beelzebub.

“By getting the fuck out and stopping this procrastination,” Dagon announced, “It’s been days. Go and either kill him or deal with him. I don’t care either way.”

Beelzebub looked up incomprehensibly for a few seconds, while Dagon glowered down, with as much absolute hatred for Angelic fuckers as they could muster. It was less than Dagon wished she could feel, but anger was a flame that tended to flicker out after a while, and just left you grasping at hollow bitterness for solid ground.

Beelzebub stood from the ground, hair in tangles and knots, with smears and stains marring their whole being. Beelzebub was filthy, an absolute grease-stain of a demon, with snot and sweat and dust coating their whole body. Beelzebub didn’t speak, however, and instead sharply nodded before stalking out the door like a poacher on a hunt.

“Aww,” Hastur responded, and flung himself back down to Ligur, “I can’t believe you broke up the party. Rude.”

“I’ll skin you alive,” Dagon hissed, “Go and get some work done, I’m sure you can pretend to know what that is.”

“Talking to you,” Ligur offered, “Exhausting.”

“You’re gonna let the Boss shack up with an Angel?” Hastur asked, and he really didn’t _give a shit_. Dagon appreciated that about Hastur.

Dagon pursed her lips, “You remember the meeting.”

“Philosophical ramblings of a mad Prince,” Ligur replied like he gave_ too much_ of a shit. Dagon also appreciated that about Ligur.

“Disgusting,” Hastur added, “He’s so clean he squeaks when he walks.”

“Like a plastic doll,” Ligur added, “Too much like a plastic doll.”

Dagon shrugged, “Boss does what Boss wants.”

“Boss is going to get themselves killed,” Hastur announced, “If Boss Man finds out.”

Dagon frowned so deeply their face was distinctly sour. Most of the time everyone just avoided the subject of Hell’s King, usually content to rave and rant in his dominion, and not bother any of the bureaucrats running around the place. He was a neglectful King, and demonkind had loved him for it.

Blackberry branches still grew rapidly, Lord Satan was a weedkiller.

“Are you going to tell him?” Dagon asked, with a withering look.

Ligur looked offended, but Hastur laughed.

“I’m going to call the _ugly_ Angel,” Dagon decided, when the two decided that getting up and leaving Dagon’s maze of stolen objects was a better choice than staying to mess things up, “I took the number from the Boss’s phone while they were dead to Gabriel.”

“All of them are ugly,” Hastur pointed out, and Dagon couldn’t help but agree.

“The one that wears brown. _Sandals_.”

“Are you going to be Best Friends with an Angel too?” Hastur replied, in the exact tone of voice Dagon used to torture misbehaving souls of long-dead human scum. Ligur passed in his traitorous poking around Dagon’s trash stacks to look excited.

Dagon scoffed, “_No_.”

“Is he a backchannel?” Ligur asked, with curiosity cut with a little too much intelligence. Dagon warily stared back. Ligur did not flinch.

“No, we’re going to make sure our Prince speaks to their wank wings,” Dagon said, “We’re going to negotiate a hostage exchange. We’re taking the Angel.”

“He’s going to Fall?” Ligur replied in surprise.

“We’re going to throw him off,” Hastur replied in glee.

“We’re making sure Heaven doesn’t pull any tricks,” Dagon replied with a snarl, “If the Boss wants a pet, the Boss gets a pet. We need to talk to those pretentious morons and figure out what they’ve forgot about a few things around here. You’re both coming.”

“Fun,” Ligur replied, reaching for a big ugly knife that Dagon had been using as a structural component of a pile of shower curtains and traffic cones. They all came tumbling to the ground in shudders and Dagon sneered at his unrepentant look.

Hastur was laughing under his breath while Dagon punched in the number into the first rotary phone Dagon could dig out of their stuff piles and wait.

“_Sandals_,” Dagon breathed into the phone in a raspy tone, “You and I need to talk.”

“Who is this?” The Angel on the other side of the phone asked, unnerved, “How did you get this number?”

“Don’t worry about that Sandals,” Dagon replied, “I am Dagon, Lord of Hell, Master of Torment, Lord of the Files. We need to have a little chat, you and I.”

“I’m in the middle of a board meeting,” Sandals responded, “It is very important. I don’t have time to chit-chat with a _filthy_ demon.”

“You flatter me, but if you do not meet me,” Dagon said cheerfully, but no less raspily, “I will set fire to every orphanage I see, and my eyesight is _very good_.”

There was silence on the other side.

“One Earth Hour,” Sandals responded, a little resigned, “I will bring two Angels with me, for security measures. I will fax you a meeting location.”

“Agreed,” Dagon responded, and laughed, “We need to discuss a little employee fraternisation, and what exactly you intend to do about it.”

“Yes,” Sandalphon replied wearily, “I think we do.”

“There will be _no Thai Food_,” Dagon added, for the sake of clarity, “And no cottages. We are not friends. I hate you and every single one of your people. You are all the worst.”

“Agreed,” Sandals sounded a tad relieved, “I think every single demon is a traitor that should be cleansed in Holy Water.”

“And every Angel should be made to _jump_,” Dagon responded with a bite to her words, “But we will talk, and we will clarify a few…_misconceptions_ regarding the long-term plan.”

“Regarding Archangel Gabriel and the Demon?”

“Yes, that too, regarding Lord Beelzebub and the cockatiel.”

“I’ll have the paperwork sent over shortly,” Sandals confirmed, “We have an idea.”

“I hope it is better than your last,” Dagon responded firmly, “Because there is still an Angel and a Demon consorting which were unkillable by our means. Perhaps we will find there are two more.”

On the other end Sandals was breathing loudly, and suddenly silence. Dagon threw the phone at the way and watched the plastic shatter into a thousand different pieces.

“Prepare the weaponry,” Dagon commanded, and watched the two Dukes of Hell grin so wide it tripled their teeth into endless gravestones, “We will win, or we will war.”


	2. The voice of the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I'm back! :D It's been awhile.

Archangel Michael, Leader of the angelic hosts, Ambassador of Paradise, Defender of Divine glory, Guardian of the Faith, Strength of God and Angel of Peace, was sitting on the edge of a picnic table in St James Park, looking enormously uncomfortable. The local ducks, knowing how to spot a clandestine meeting of enemy forces a mile away, were circling around the table looking hopefully upwards. Archangel Sandalphon had his fingers pressed against his temples, muttering prayers about celestial headaches, while Uriel was leaning back so starkly that she might have fallen back to the dirt if she wasn’t an Angel capable of defying natural laws. She kept eying the ducks like she was yet uncertain if they were demonic agents masquerading as earthly fowl, and certainly if she had asked the local children, she might have had her suspicions confirmed. Uriel had yet to discover that ducks were not motivated by such celestial concepts as good and evil, heaven and hell, and instead dreamed of the stark dichotomy between bread and breadlessness.

Across the table, Lord Dagon was smiling broadly with Hastur and Ligur flanking her sides. Both had stopped off along the way to grab icecream cut with pig fat that was melting down their hands in long white lines. They were using their sticky fingers to hand paperwork to the disgusted Angels, with blank looks that were doing more to unnerve the other side than a smile ever would.

“Where did the Great Plan come from?” Dagon announced, once Michael was looking greatly irritated enough about the long awkward wait at a chipped picnic table.

Michael, who had been expecting something much different, looked visibly surprised, “It’s the Great Plan.”

“Who created it,” Dagon insisted, “Was it one of _yours_? One of _ours_?”

“It just _is_,” Michael insisted, with narrowed eyes, “It’s just always been the Great Plan, we’ve _always _known it.”

“Beelzebub reported that the principality Aziraphale asked the question – is _the great plan the ineffable plan_?” Dagon responded a little more harshly than intended, “If we’ve always known it – then it can’t be the _ineffable_ plan – and if we’ve always known it – then we _knew_ it before the revolution. Pre-destination or choice in Falling is irrelevant – unless of course, the Great Plan is another of Heaven’s great _propaganda_ schemes designed to keep demons fooled.”

Michael sat more primly and pursed her lips.

“You know why you _Fell_,” Michael hissed back, in a matter that was quite unangelic, “Why you were stripped of your name in disgrace, _Arariel_.”

Dagon hissed back, teeth bared, as Uriel sighed into her hands. Hastur and Ligur blinked with a scowl to their faces, like they had finally switched from simply wanting to generally annoy the feathered pricks from upstairs and settled into something a little more proactively nasty.

“I am Lord _Dagon_, Prince of the deep oceans and the _horrors_ hiding within,” Dagon hissed through her teeth, the sharpest teeth in existence, “The demon of traps and monsters and drownings and – and _unspeakable_ things.”

“But you were Arariel, one of the seven angels of the earth, protector of water, invoked to cure _stupidity_,” Michael stubbornly replied, with a fake smile, “According to the records we have been diligently reconstructing, and certainly Heaven’s records have never been wrong, _Arariel_.”

“If the Great Plan is the ineffable plan,” Uriel said, looking displeased, “Then we should not know how it will play out. If it is not, we are not bound to _follow_ it. Perhaps, this too is part of the plan?”

Dagon snarled back again and clenched her hands hard enough to leave long claw marks in the wooden benchtop.

Michael was nonplussed for a moment, but settled back into a fake smile with the practice of an Angel who has never questioned things before, “I did not come here to discuss theology with you – I came because you have _quite _upset Sandalphon with this constant harassment – _so_ what do you _want_.”

“We want the Angel,” Dagon announced, “The tall one. The one with the _big mouth_.”

“You can’t be _serious_,” Michael responded, in absolute offence, “You can’t just _have_ Gabriel.”

“Why _not_?” Dagon responded in surprise, “He’s a _bastard._ “

“She’s not wrong,” Sandalphon muttered lowly, while Uriel shot a positively _dark_ look at her co-worker.

“He’ll fit right in,” Dagon continued, “He can be the Bosses secretary. He can _keep_ the suit since that’s what the boss seems to be _into_. Maybe then the Boss would stay at their desk instead of running off to him so often.”

“If this is a _joke_,” Michael replied flatly, sending a sharp glare to her side, “That is not _funny_ in the slightest.”

“The evidence is clear,” Ligur interjected, pushing a paperback copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ towards the other side of the table, “We’ve done the research.”

“Research,” Michael replied, eying the beaten paperback with great distaste, “_Explain_.”

“_Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,” _Ligur responded in a dark and dreary tone, _“From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.”_

“Hmm,” Sandalphon added, looking more stressed, “They might have a _point. _Love- “

Sandalphon looked positively _ill_, and took a deep steading breath before continuing, “-does not often work across party lines.”

“Sandy’s _right_,” Dagon responded, but didn’t sound _pleased_ about it, “Here’s an employee transfer form.”

Dagon slid a manilla folder across the table while maintaining severe eye contact. Michael’s eyes narrowed and didn’t move to touch the folder, but let a smile curl at the edges of her mouth.

“You will note,” Dagon said, with a smile that contained more teeth than was strictly necessary, “That we have filled out each section impeccably. You are _welcome_.”

The words sounded and tasted like ash in Dagon’s mouth.

Uriel’s hand darted out, lifting the folder and frowning before she’d even seen the words _‘Kick Gabriel Out’_ scrawled across a napkin bearing the name of a megacorporation and smeared with a little barbeque sauce. Instead, she closed the folder and levelled a withering look back.

“This isn’t a recognised and approved form,” Uriel interjected, “And I will not entertain the idea of trading an Angel to Hell, like _chattel_. What if we wanted to take Beelzebub instead? Beelzebub was once an Archangel- “

“_Fake news_,” Hastur sneered.

“_WAS _once an Archangel,” Uriel repeated louder, “This is not up for negation. You _all were once angel_s. And Beelzebub _could very well be an Archangel again_, and even more so now they have found it deep within themselves to accept _love_ back into their life. Is that not redemption of a degree that can only speak of _Her mercy?”_

“I _love_ to poison water wells,” Dagon snapped back, “Have I accepted love back enough to get a VIP ticket back into your little exclusive country club?”

Michael narrowed her eyes dangerously, Dagon smiled back with a _promise_.

“You can’t _have _him,” Sandalphon replied, glancing between the two warily, “This is not up for negotiation.”

Ligur huffed.

“What do you propose then,” Dagon replied brusquely, “You’re _not_ having the Boss, because I will kill every single person at this picnic table,_ including_ myself, if you try to take them to indoctrinate into your little_ sound of music_ based cult.”

Sandalphon recoiled sharply while Michael and Uriel frowned in concert.

“Aren’t you disgusting demons?” Sandalphon finally said, “Can’t you just, tell Beelzebub _not_ to fraternise with our good Gabriel? You’re all _demons._ Don’t you have a policy of torture? Brimstone? General doom?”

“Are you aware Beelzebub once ate a demon?” Ligur leaned forwards, “Blood, bone, scales, hooves and all?”

Michael and Dagon made eye contact for a second, where they had a startling moment of mutual clarity, before shaking their heads.

“I’m not kidnapping Gabriel,” Michael responded, eying Dagon’s creepy smile, “And I can’t imagine _how_ we could take down Beelzebub.”

“You won’t touch a single hair on their head,” Dagon smiled cruelly, “But I’m _happy_ to take the Angel from you.”

“There _is_ a pre-existing model,” Uriel interjected, glancing at Michael, “The _traitors_.”

The reaction was immediate and swift; Hastur and Ligur burst into near hysterical demonic laughter that instantly sent the hopeful ducks on an early mass-migration south for the winter. All around them, human tourists suddenly got the urge to depart the park, with no concrete reason why they suddenly felt uneasy.

“You want us to _exile_ our Lord,” Dagon replied with a faked laugh of derision, “Lord Beelzebub has committed the _greatest demonic trick _known to creation.”

“Gabriel has _redeemed_ a demon of immense suffering,” Michael snapped back harshly.

“This is going nowhere,” Uriel interjected, drumming her fingers on the picnic table, “We have special dispensation to call for a neutral third party when we require an arbitrator.”

“Oh yes,” Ligur dryly responded, “An _unbiase_d individual. We used to use the Nephilim until Gabriel went around lopping off heads; the single most effective marketing campaign Hell has ever benefitted from.”

“A _human_,” Uriel suggested lightly.

“An unbiased human?” Ligur snorted, “How easy to find under Heaven’s propaganda campaign.”

“The Anti-Christ,” Sandalphon replied slowly, “Is technically on Heaven’s staff registry.”

“He’s on our staff registry,” Dagon insisted, “Considering he’s the _heir_ to Hell.”

“Whom _She _planned and gave purpose to,” Michael interjected, “He will bring about her Ineffable and Great Plan.”

Dagon glowered, and smashed her teeth shut sharply until the ache was reverbing in her jaw.

“Well, he _technically _tendered his resignation,” Uriel finally voiced, as Dagon’s teeth started to groan under her haw’s pressure, “We just haven’t _accepted_ it yet on our end, since we’re really not _sure_ if he can resign from his predestined role?”

“He’s not _old enough_ to resign,” Hastur interjected, “He’s a child.”

“Can the antichrist opt-out of being the antichrist? Can a human opt-out of being _human_?”

“Some of them _do_, you won’t _believe_ the things humans can do with a fursuit,” Sandalphon said, drawing blank looks from half the table, “But there are standards for this sort of thing, and if the boy _is_ the impartial judge – then we will still need a jury. Since impartiality is out of the question - What about we make it equally as biased? Find someone who hates Gabriel _just as much_ as Beelzebub?”

“You can’t be _serious_,” Hastur interjected harshly, “Crowley and his Angel are mad, absolutely _mad_. He asked for a _rubber ducky_. Crowley _killed_ Ligur.”

Michael’s eyes flicked from Hastur to Ligur.

“I got _better_,” Ligur added, and crossed his arms across his chest to prevent future inquiry. Michael looked a little unnerved, but seemed to have filed it away with the rest of the celestial bureaucratic nightmare that was the apocalypse – and grimaced at the reminder of the paperwork still sitting at her desk from the souls Heaven had signed on arrival – only to have them returned to miraculously restored corporations on earth.

“Why do you even _want_ Gabriel anyway?” Michael replied bitingly.

Dagon grinned back something wicked and made a pantomime of picking feathers from between her teeth before Uriel sighed loudly.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Uriel sighed again, and wearily rubbed her temples, “Gabriel is in love with Beelzebub – and I think Beelzebub might be too.”

“Oh _course_,” Hastur responded reverently, “No one loves Beelzebub like _Beelzebub_ – they are the demon of _pride_.”

Uriel pushed back the paperback copy of Romeo and Juliet until Ligur dared to snatch it away and tuck it inside his coat pocket.

“This isn’t just another of these weird demonic licking things, is it?” Sandalphon replied a little suspiciously.

“Beelzebub can _lick_ whatever Angel Beelzebub wants to,” Ligur interjected, “It’s our Princes Hell-demanded _right_.”

Michael looked like something particularly nasty was about to spring forth from her tongue, but instead, she pursed her lips and looked considerate for a moment. Uriel nodded approvingly.

“This demonic dialect nonsense is really quite _hard_ to keep up with,” Michael muttered, and looked particularly annoyed, then grimaced, “We will send an envoy to the Antichrist child, and send a missive to the Principality Aziraphale ordering both to attend to this very park in exactly _two weeks_ from this date. I expect you to do the same with your people?”

“We will,” Dagon grinned, “It is done. If you do not hold up your side of the deal, there will be _consequences_.”

“Understood,” Michael trilled back, “I hope you understand the same? Good.”

With that last comment, Michael and her guards were off in a flash of divine light. Dagon snarled in frustration and swirled on the two demons beside her, “If we are not given the Angel in this _charade_ of a _trial_ – _we will take him_. Ensure the troops are properly outfitted with weaponry. _Go_!”

Hastur and Ligur nodded and were off in a flash of flames. Dagon sat and brooded on the bench for much longer, before finally standing to disappear into London with chaos in mind.


	3. A Memorable Fancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of updates friends.

Aziraphale was enjoying the process of cooking a traditional English breakfast, as he usually did on Sunday mornings. It was hardly a new occurrence, but one that he had learned a few thousand years ago – he enjoyed the process of making tasty morsels to eat just as much as he enjoyed eating them. Crowley had most kindly popped off to the shops in the morning to bring back supplies from a local greengrocer, before relaxing down into a couch laden with blankets like a cat just a tad put out that it was so _cold_. His nose was starting to turn red from the cool air of winter, and Crowley had never coped well in such months – much like a snake he tended to prefer the warmth of summer. Fortunately, Aziraphale’s bookshop had a little heater, and Crowley could relax in both the general warmth of their little abode and curl up as close as possible to the heater with blankets draped around him.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was lost in the process of cooking, humming a happy little tune as he fried the sausages, bacon and tomato while he sliced mushrooms cheerfully. Once sliced, he dropped the mushrooms in the pan with thick globs of butter and stirred the pan of baked beans with a spatula. After cracking eggs into a pan, and licking his lips in great anticipation, he set about adding slices of black pudding into the pan and swaying back and forth as he whistled cheerfully. The sound of the toast popping made him beam just a little in and he wiggled about happily as he buttered his toast and set his teacup for when the kettle finally whistled on the stove.

Sundays were becoming a little of a time of sanctuary for them. Crowley still disappeared to go off and conduct a little mischief as his demonic calling compelled him too – which at the moment _seemed_ to really just be picking up fallen succulent leaves from the floors of megacorporation’s to propagate and give away for free – despite Crowley’s vehement objections that he was really _up to no good at all_. Aziraphale, likewise, was still making regular trips up to London to his bookshop – and to local book markets to salvage ancient tomes from the unwitting grandchildren of the newly departed who just wanted some junk gone.

Lately, they had decided to inhabit the bookshop, to avoid dealing with the mess happening across the road from their little cottage. Gabriel and Beelzebub, quite frankly, were a mess they were no longer _obligated_ to deal with.

It was why, when Crowley yelped loudly, followed by a thud that sounded suspiciously like a demon-shaped body hitting the floor, Aziraphale took a few seconds to blink before darting into the living room in concern.

“_Aziraphale_,” Dagon, the very personification of an unwanted houseguest, greeted in a manner that was a little more pleasant than Aziraphale expected, “_Crowley_.”

“She climbed through a _sodding_ window,” Crowley snapped, still clutching the blanket under his chin, even as he scrambled to his feet, “What do you _want_ Dagon?”

“I’m delivering your _jury_ _summons_,” Dagon replied churlishly, “So if I were you, I’d be a little more grateful.”

“Jury summons?” Aziraphale stammered out at the same time Crowley dropped his blanket and let a bland _‘what’_ slip past his lips.

“We have juries now?” Crowley added with a blank stare, “Since _when_?”

“Since we _wanted _them,” Dagon stubbornly replied, “_What’s it to you_? You don’t even live there anymore.”

“Yeah!” Crowley snapped back, “Considering you lot tried to execute me via _holy water_ – where was the jury then.”

“Oh, we _had_ them,” Dagon replied sourly, “We just all _hated _you. Don’t you recall the audience that turned up to watch you _die_?”

Crowley seethed until Aziraphale took a wary step forward to place a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. Crowley glanced at him quickly, and Aziraphale smiled back reassuringly. Dagon rolled her eyes with clear disgust on her face.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s shoulder, before levelling a foul look at Dagon, “What’s this about jury duty?”

Dagon rolled her eyes, “A formality surrounding the employee transfer of the _bastard angel_.”

“_What_? _Gabriel_?” Crowley replied in surprise, “How in the name of Hell did _that_ happen?”

“Prince Beelzebub,” Dagon responded passionately, “Has become involved with the…_Gabriel_.”

“We’re aware,” Aziraphale responded firmly, but with audible surprise, “But – he _Fell_ for them?”

“_No_,” Dagon responded, even more sourly than usual, “Thus the need for _arbitration_ involving their ongoing…_friendship_. You’ve been selected for jury duty.”

“I’m _busy_,” Crowley replied with a condescending smile.

“I don’t _care_,” Dagon replied lazily.

“This is a _custody_ dispute,” Crowley responded incredulously, “Over _Gabriel_? Hell, I didn’t think there was _one_ person in all of creation that wanted Gabriel, let alone _two_.”

“Crowley, be _nice_,” Aziraphale admonished kindly, “I assume you want Gabriel, on Beelzebub’s request? That doesn’t seem like such a healthy relationship to cultivate.”

“It’s _bride napping_,” Crowley replied, and then grinned broadly at his own joke.

“Unless,” Aziraphale added thoughtfully, peering at Dagon curiously, “Beelzebub does not _know_ about this?”

“Prince Beelzebub is _indisposed_ at the moment,” Dagon replied bitingly, “Though I am sure we could all grow to _tolerate_ the demon Gabriel would become, once a little trauma and agony has made him a lot more fun and less _lavender_. I imagine him to be a little less _pleasant_ to look at, and possibly with less jogging.”

“Ah,” Crowley cooed back with a sharp smile, “You lot are meddling again in things that really don’t _concern_ you. What if Beelz is _really into_ the lavender and jogging and mathematically perfect jawline?”

“It will certainly concern _you_ now,” Dagon replied smugly, “We will come and get you in two weeks or so – make sure you decide that Gabriel _belongs_ to Hell, yes? We would not want any _unfortunate_ things to happen to you.”

“Unfortunate things started to happen to me when you climbed through the window, Dagon,” Crowley drawled back, “Now kindly _piss off_.”

With an entirely _unimpressed_ look, Dagon was gone in a flash of hellfire.

Aziraphale and Crowley breathed a quick sigh of relief.

“The absolute _gall_, the _nerve_,” Aziraphale snapped, then paused as a funny smell hit his nose – the smell of burning breakfast. With a not-so-foul swear Aziraphale was off into the kitchen in a sour mood and beelined to the frying pan. He turned off the heat and moved the pans from the heat in a flurry of activity, “It’s just so _unreasonable_ and – and quite frankly _RUDE_ to demand that you have to take part in this _nonsense_.”

Aziraphale frowned down at the pan – where the ingredients had started to charcoal and was terribly ruined, “Oh _bother_! Crowley, Look at this _mess_!”

“_Aziraphale_,” Crowley called, “More mess incoming.”

“Crowley?”

“Aziraphale!” Archangel Michael replied, from the kitchen table, “What good fortune to find you here!”

“Michael,” Aziraphale replied with a sigh, “Not so much good fortune, as I live here. What can I help you with today, hmm?”

“You’ve been summoned for jury duty,” Michael responded brightly, “Isn’t that exciting Aziraphale?”

“Oh _good_,” Crowley responded loudly, “Why do we even _bother_, really?”

“_Demon_,” Michael acknowledged with thick venom dripping from her words, before turning back to Aziraphale with a saccharine smile, “There’s a little matter regarding conduct between an Angel and a Demon that you have been selected to help us arbitrate!”

“Beelzebub and Gabriel, is it?” Aziraphale replied, “Regarding if Gabriel should reside in Heaven or Hell?”

“It’s a bit more nuanced than that,” Michael responded with a frown, “Regarding if Beelzebub and Gabriel should be allowed to _fraternise_, if indeed, they quote _‘love each other’_ unquote, and perhaps that Beelzebub might be restored to the glory of Heaven, redeemed as our beloved sibling Raphael, the healer who was healed by _Her _love!”

“If I may - was this _requested_ by Gabriel?” Aziraphale queried, “It’s just that – what about _asking_ him?”

“Gabriel is _indisposed_,” Michael responded brightly, “He trusts us implicitly to make good choices on his behalf when he is unable to – and I’m sure he will be _most delighted_ when Raphael returns home to the glory of the Heavens so they may be best friends for all eternity!”

“Oh,” Crowley responded with a scrunched nose, “Don’t – _don’_t call them that. You are aware Beelzebub once unhinged their jaw and swallowed a demon _whole_ for calling them _Baalzebub_?”

“I’ve been made aware of the consumption preferences of demons, yes,” Michael responded stiffly, “Though Heaven _will not_ be catering for it.”

“Right,” Crowley stared for a long moment and seemed to finally decide to exhale deeply, “So we’re negotiating a _celestial prenup_. _Brilliant_. This is rich, you’re all a bunch of _hypocrites_.”

“Oh, I will certainly take moral judgements from a demon of all things,” Michael huffed, “Do try to leave judgements to the experts, hmm?”

Crowley’s jaw tightened, while Aziraphale gazed back in sheer disbelief.

“Make sure you find in the best interests of Heaven, Aziraphale,” Michael brightly responded, pointedly looking at Aziraphale, “Oh of course – I needn’t _mention_ such a thing, because you of all Angels can understand how a demon can be redeemed by the endless love of Heaven, given your own little best friend situation, hmm? We’ll set a precedent with this ruling that may very well help you in the future.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale frowned, “I’m _quite_ content here on Earth for the time being, really. Crowley and I are quite _fine_. Really just looking forward to a spot of _quiet_ from now on.”

“Of course,” Michael responded genteelly, “Two weeks from now, we’ll send someone to collect you for the arbitration. I do hope you choose to do the_ right_ thing, Aziraphale.”

Before Aziraphale, or even Crowley could respond, Michael was gone in a flash of lightning. Aziraphale glowered at the spot for just a moment and then cursed as he turned to clean up the remains of his burned breakfast. Crowley hovered around for just a second before placing a guiding hand on Aziraphale’s arm.

“Come now Angel,” Crowley soothed, “Have some tea before we go bothering with all that utter _malarkey_.”

About 40 miles west of A.Z Fell and Co, fifteen-year-old Adam Young was at his computer desk, more or less procrastinating on English Literature work. A scuffed copy of _Lord of the Flies _borrowed from Tadsfield library was to his left, teetering on an overdue copy of _Great Expectations_ that he had done nothing more than flick through. The only book he’d really read so far was _Much Ado About Nothing_, mostly because Pepper had written a feminist critique of an essay about the book that had turned Mr Cantilupe’s face a bit red and Adam more or less figured he needed to know what that was about.

Dad was downstairs, probably with his feet kicked up on his armchair while he read the Sunday paper. He tended to enjoy his weekends and only usually remembered to make sure Adam had done his homework – which Adam had _not_ – late on Sunday evenings. There was a standing ‘no computer games’ rule until homework had been completed, which was a bit rubbish considering the homework wasn’t even due until _Tuesday_ morning, giving Adam a whole perfectly good day to get it done that wasn’t a precious _Sunday_. Mum certainly didn’t see it that way and would ask Adam if his homework was done – and would know if he lied.

Adam all thought it was a bit much anyway: Wensleydale was most likely to at least read over their essays a bit later though to fix up the grammar and spelling, though Pepper was more likely to read essays for the arguments inside. Brian more or less always ended up with thick ink marks down his arms and legs from doodling away all day – and because he had the most peculiar habit of always picking up pens that desperately wanted to explode their ink over his perfect white shirt. It was for this reason that Brian could always be relied upon to have a bag full of pens and pencils at the ready for all group efforts in squiggling little corrections over papers.

Adam worked better when he was around his friends anyway – some minor distraction aside – since they often knew how to word things right. He couldn’t even do that now – Wensleydale and Brian were very much so not morning people, and their weekends involved much more sleeping in than Adam’s did. Pepper was very much a morning person, but she’d taken to a morning feminist yoga class recently so she wouldn’t be able to even chat until she’d at least finished the vegetarian pot-luck breakfast at the yoga class. That could very well be hours if they’d decided to squeeze in a little bit of impromptu tea-drinking. Even if everyone had been awake -there was not really much chance of escaping for another hour or so – when Mum popped down the road to visit Mrs Spyres who was a bit sickly. Even Dog was still snoozing on his bed a little, but in a dozy way that looked like he was a little put out about the lack of excitement in his canine morning.

It was mostly boredom then, that was half-heartedly encouraging Adam to work a little on English Literature work, but also had him checking the online tab to see when anyone came online for multiplayer.

This was why, when there was a little _DING_! From his laptop, alerting him to a new email, he clicked on the popup without even checking the title.

_‘ANTICHRIST ADAM, YOUNG’_ the email said, with a little emoji of a smiling devil, _‘You have been selected to be the judge in an arbitration between HEAVEN and HELL concerning LORD BEELZEBUB and ARCHANGEL GABRIEL, concerning CONTINUED EMPLOYMENT OF EMPLOYEES AND THEIR PROPER DEPARTMENTS. You have been given AZIRAPHALE, PRINCIPALITY AND GUARDIAN OF THE EASTERN GATES as an EQUALLY BIASED JURY MEMBER by THE HEAVENLY HOST OF ANGELS. YOU WILL BE COLLECTED IN TWO EARTH WEEKS to HEAR THE EVIDENCE AND CAST JUDGEMENT._

_THIS ELECTRONIC COMMUNIQUE HAS BEEN AUTHORISED BY ARCHANGEL MICHAEL’_

Adam frowned deeply at this email; in part, due to the font that kept switching between Papyrus and comic sans mid-letter, like two people had been fighting over the email for far too long and partly because his computer cursor had suddenly sprouted little angelic wings and a halo. The last time Heaven and Hell had interrupted his life, had been an averted apocalypse on an airfield base and a close call with Dad grounding him for a whole two days. It had also involved a close call with his not-so earthly dad, and Adam had more or less decided not to bother dealing with that until he was older, and didn’t really think that dealing with the idea of being the antichrist was meant to be sorted out around GCSE’s.

“Come on Dog,” Adam said out loud, sighing and deciding this was perhaps something that at least Brian and Wensleydale needed to read – and to do that he needed to bike down to their houses and possibly sit on top of them, “_Something_ is happening.”

Adam had managed to put his coat on but hadn’t quite found where his shoes had actually ended up, when he heard the sound of his Mum’s footsteps making their way up the staircase. Dog’s head moved before even Adam could hear it, so by the time Adam even thought about at least pushing the mess of his bedroom under his bed, Mum was knocking at the door.

“Adam! There’s a postman downstairs who needs you to sign for a package!”

“It’s Sunday,” Adam replied, slinking out the door in a small enough gap as he could to prevent Mum from seeing the state of his room, “What do you _mean_ postman?”

“I mean postman,” Mum replied, eying the door in such a way that Adam knew she’d caught on to his cunning plan, “Have you been ordering things from online again? You know your father doesn’t like you buying things from online stores without telling us.”

“I haven’t!” Adam responded defensively, “Must have been one of the guys – it _is _almost my birthday.”

“I hadn’t recalled,” Mum responded, with a smile curving on her mouth, “Given you’ve barely mentioned it since last night.”

“_Mum_,” Adam grumbled, then perked as Dog went diving down the stairs, “Oh Dog! Get back here!”

Dog was waiting at the very front door when Adam finally was downstairs again. As Mum had said, there was a postman in the doorway, dressed in drab brown, with a logo on his chest that said, “International Express”. Dog usually barked a little at strangers – Dad said it was mostly out of protectiveness, which was nice, even though it annoyed both Adam’s parents. This time, Dog was staring up with his big eyes quite patiently.

Somehow, against impossible odds, Adam didn’t need to look at the ancient waxy envelope in his hands to know this was something a little _odd_. “Ah! Master Adam! Delivery for you sir,” The Man held forward a clipboard, with a rather nice pen attached, “Sign here please.”

Adam signed on the clipboard – that at least was unremarkable, and then curiously looked at the ancient envelope in his hands. What he had first thought was a letter, was, in fact, a telegram – owing to the giant “TELEGRAM” stamped on the front of it, with old fashioned ink stamps from where it had bounced around in the postal system – possibly because the front simply said “ANTICHRIST ADAM YOUNG, THE”.

Adam cracked it open – pausing slightly at the ornate red wax seal on the back - and could only find a simple sentence on the crumbling card stock inside: _“You’ve been not-so randomly selected to be our judge, more info to come – Lord of the Files, Dagon.”_

“Right,” Adam said to himself, and then immediately tucked the letter into his coat pockets, to keep it safe while he went off to find Wensleydale and Brian.


	4. The Proverbs of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The main difference between Angels and Demons was this: Demons created and built resumes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I'm gainfully employed and alive!

Although Hell was often described as a lawless place of brimstone and fires, eternal damnation and immense suffering, the opposite was also rather true. For some, especially for the Demons that had diligently built a resume of miserable bureaucracy and a general demoness, Hell was also a place of freedom and indeed, _fun_.

Angels and Demons were a rather contrary sort of creature.

Demons enjoyed the monotony of bureaucracy for the suffering and misery of repetition and tedium. The eternally burning fires had largely fallen out of fashion sometime around the turn of the 13th century, as demons realised the boring monotony of bureaucracy and endless grey corridors were much more conducive to general suffering and misery. This was surprising to many, as demons were largely _masochistic_ in nature, although they were also incredibly good _liars_, and rather put out about the very existence of humankind.

Angels enjoyed the monotony of bureaucracy for the joy and delight of repetition and tedium. Heaven had been an early adopter of the grey office cubicle, and the idea of fluffy clouds and harps had fallen out of favour around the turn of the 13th century. This occurred as Angels realised the joy of paperwork could be felt most dutifully with even more bureaucratic space allocation, therefore creating even more conductive methods of happiness and satisfaction. This was just as surprising, as angels were largely just as masochistic, although they were also incredibly good _liars_, and also rather put out about the very existence of humankind.

If Hell had ever produced a tourist brochure, they would certainly list the dance parties DJ’d by some of the _finest _musicians in history, and the enormously popular buffet-style dinners. The dinners, though, were more or less piles of stale bread tossed in a corner and buckets of salads with so much dressing that it had long since passed into the territory of soup. The demon known as Hastur could be found here quite regularly, having delighted himself in the 1970s by hollowing out a piece of stale bread and using that same bread roll as a container for assorted office supplies since.

If Heaven ever produced a tourist brochure, they would list the full discography of the Sound of Music, and the buffets of simple (stale) bread served on the finest cutlery and perfectly white plates. There were also salads, with a bland but healthy dressing. Uriel especially could be found in this location, watching glasses of ancient wine being swirled around in the shiniest of wine glasses with a sort of fond reverence for creation.

The main difference between Angels and Demons was this: Demons created and built _resumes_.

This was not so shocking, given that Demons had also once been the first in history to be (Hell)_fired_ for poor job performance. It was also not so surprising that Demons in some way _enjoyed_ the creation of the resume as a demonic act of inflicting suffering on the universe – but also as a form of personally acceptable demonic therapy.

It was due to these unique facts about the demon psyche, that demonkind had several unique proverbs that would be completely alien to their angelic counterparts – and _incomprehensible_ to any humans. Any fellow demons that overheard these might be so inclined to nod their heads thoughtfully to acknowledge the wisdom if they were not outwardly scowling.

The first proverb, _A demon thinks with their wings and then their teeth. _That was, a Demon’s memory of blinding agony was always at the forefront of their mind. It was also an excellent motivator for sadistic violence. It was as much as a proverb about poor job performance, as it was a proverb about meeting those KPI’s (Key Performance Indicators). Beelzebub especially was proud of the creation of KPI’s and liked to bring these up at board meetings like a kind of unwelcome surprise.

The second, _The only difference between an Angel and a good time is the seasoning. _Sometime quite recently, a demon had drawn a comparison between a human propensity to prepare and eat the wings of fowl, and how the celestial wings of Angels might just be a little tasty – with the _right_ herbs and spices. That is making sure you are a bad little demon and hit those ROI’s (Return on Investments), because if you don’t, well, anyone can be fired.

Demonic Resources was always ready to bring out the cumin.

The third was – _The fell of the lion can be mistaken for the fleece of the sheep. _This proverb, perhaps the oldest, but certainly one of the least quoted proverbs, meant that someone donned in the skin of a lion could be mistaken for someone clothed in fleece – but would not change who they were. Practically, do not get too worked up about career progression in Hell – don’t find out why one of the smallest demons of all rules with an iron fist.

It was surprising then that Beelzebub was thinking about all three of these demonic proverbs, which could be described as a sort of Hellish _Live, Laugh, Love_.

Gabriel was not so easy to find, even for a Demon of Beelzebub’s prowess.

Demons and Angels did not regularly plan to meet up and exchange pleasantries – and it seemed that any calls to Heaven were bouncing straight to voicemail. Beelzebub stewed in their utter rage at the voicemail and staunchly tried to forget that only a few weeks ago, Gabriel had been the one madly trying to call Beelzebub. He hadn’t given up for a single second, but Beelzebub didn’t even know where to start. The voice in their chest was frozen, and when they tried to open their mouth, only the celestial buzzing of a thousand cicadas came rumbling up from their ribcage.

Beelzebub spent about a week straight trying to find where the Angel was – or where he might turn up. He was not at the little cottage he regularly rented – nor across the street with the traitors. Beelzebub stared at the Tangerine door and desperately wanted to screech until the bowels of the earth erupted.

Instead, they spun so quickly on their heels that the flames of Hell erupted as they stalked across the street.

The traitors weren’t even _home_, however, which meant Beelzebub could not-so-happily drink the festering juice in the fridge and rotting cheese wheels in the pantry and generally have a decent second office to do paperwork from for a week – because _bureaucracy _didn’t falter just because they were also looking for a particularly sensitive Angel. Inter-departmental work was a bore, but Michael kept sending ‘Freedom of Information Requests’ that had to be dutifully licked clean of ink and shoved back into an envelope with a handful of Crowley’s tourist fridge magnets before they could be properly shoved down the back of Crowley’s couch.

It certainly made the place seem less Angelically _boring_ – especially after Beelzebub set fire to the cross stitches that Angels seemed to be so _fond_ of. Home sweet home, _indeed_.

Happily, Crowley did seem to keep a variety of particularly evil and nasty books – though Beelzebub hadn’t even been sure that Crowley could _read_, given his abominable paperwork.

Gabriel did not appear for the entirety of the first week.

He wasn’t on any of his regular islands, or in any city that had been named after him. There were lots of them, teetering on the edge of idolatry, and Gabriel refused to admit he loved them all like Beelzebub couldn’t smell the sour tones of pride and greed from beneath his collar and tie. They started in _San Gabriel, California_, and glowered at the local youth who seemed to _admire _their demonic-uniform.

Mount Gabriel in Ireland was disappointing, and the typical jogging paths he usually took were filled with some terribly out of breath joggers. They didn’t even react in a particularly funny way when Beelzebub paused to make them fall right on their stupid faces – it seemed that the paths had been replaced with a kind of spongey safety plastic which put Beelzebub in a dark mood from the lack of gross asphalt face burns for a few hours. Beelzebub was in such a _foul_ mood that they found themselves stoking the fury of a few anti-vaxxers before grudgingly acknowledging that there was only one other option to pursue.

Beelzebub’s phone felt like acid in their hands. They could imagine it burning through skin, fat, sinew and bones until their hand was sizzling into the ground. The acid crept up to their arm until it started to dissolve the thick muscle in their chest, before creeping further until Beelzebub’s tongue was dissolved and dripping down their chest.

_‘I’m sorry’_ Beelzebub texted.

Beelzebub exhaled sharply and then dropped to the grassy hill with a smack that removed the air from their lungs and cracked against the back of their skull so harshly that a mortal would have seen stars. Beelzebub had been born seeing stars, but this felt more like the pain of having them wretched away. They could feel their body go still, collapsing into the grass and fertile soil until they could feel the perpetual rot of their body breaking down into the ground.

It would be easier, Beelzebub reckoned, to just dissipate into the soil and be devoured by the crawling creeping creatures of Adam’s garden. All around them, Beelzebub could feel the earthworms deep in the ground wiggling towards the surface, and in the sky, the flies buzzed anxiously. The sunshine was sharp and sizzled on their skin – the feeling of burning intensified until Beelzebub could feel the deep satisfaction of _burning, burning_ and skin screaming for relief.

Beelzebub’s eyes were frying with light until the sweet relief of shade loomed over them. It took a while for their eyes to adjust, but when they did, it was Gabriel looming down from above with a smile.

“_I’m sorry_,” Beelzebub said again as softly as the silk of Gabriel’s tie, and as they did, felt the remaining will to live evaporate into smoke and be washed away by the wind. His purple eyes were light and soft, and Beelzebub for one split second imagined a world without pain.

“You should be,” Gabriel responded, like an absolute moron.

“Ex-_fucking_-cuse me?” Beelzebub demanded, shooting up straight until their eyes were level, “That’s not how you’re supposed to react you _feathered twit_.”

“You’re wrong, _Beelzebuby_,” Gabriel responded, then paused, “Because clearly you think you need to apologise, and who am I to argue with you?”

His smile wasn’t a kind one. It was one that was entirety provocative, like a red flag in front of a bull.

“I take it back,” Beelzebub snapped, “I’m not _sorry_ anymore, and you can just go back to whatever angelic bullshit you’re up to.”

Gabriel shuffled besides Beelzebub and crouched own on his heels as if he was desperately trying to avoid soiling his suit with grass stains. As he did so, Beelzebub gaped back and gritted their teeth so hard that they could feel little cracks appearing across molars.

“Where the hell were you?” Beelzebub demanded, but with less heat.

“I was out,” Gabriel responded, “_Thinking_.”

“You said you’d see me next Wednesday. That was _over_ a week ago,” Beelzebub accused, and narrowed their eyes, “I unblocked your phone number.”

“You did,” Gabriel responded, “Last Wednesday was a public holiday. I’m entitled to days off.”

“_Gabriel_,” Beelzebub _hissed_, and reached up to grab a handful of his purple tie, “_Where_ were you?”

“The moon,” Gabriel responded as if that were a perfectly reasonable thing to say, “I needed some time to think _because I didn’t want to be wrong_.”

Beelzebub’s hand wavered, and suddenly both of them, eye to eye, remembered the last conversation they had shared. Beelzebub’s hand slowly released the fabric, but Gabriel’s hand covered theirs before Beelzebub could pull away.

“I think I love you,” Gabriel said, and then pointedly sat down beside Beelzebub, who froze at the movement, “I think I want to have more than a weekly lunch meeting with you, and I think I would like to groom your wings.”

Beelzebub stared back until Gabriel pursed his lips harshly.

“Has anyone groomed your wings? Ever?” Gabriel pushed and looked a little uncertain, “I’m pretty good at it – at least I’m certainly not _bad_.”

“_Do you_-,” Beelzebub faltered, before sighing, “What did you _decide_?”

Gabriel shifted, “That you gave me _permission_.”

“_I did_,” Beelzebub responded.

Gabriel looked surprised at that admission and nodded sharply.

“I have decided to give _myself _permission,” Gabriel said, and carefully removed his jacket to fold it across his lap, then leaned back on the grass onto his hands, “But, I cannot change who I am. I am an Archangel of Heaven, and I’m - not even if you _asked_ me, Beelzebub.”

“Falling isn’t a _choice_,” Beelzebub gave a sharp nod, “Choosing who you are _is_. I wouldn’t choose to Rise, Gabriel. Not even if _you _asked.”

“I don’t need you to,” Gabriel responded, “I – I prefer Beelzebub. My Best Friend”

Beelzebub crammed their head around to look at his face – staring off into the sun with a look of acceptance. Beelzebub was so absorbed by the lines of his jaw flexing as he thought that they almost missed his words.

“So, what are we then,” Gabriel responded with a musing tone, “Because unlike Aziraphale and Crowley, we can’t hide behind our documented history of sheer_ incompetence_ to explain why we’ve been reassigned to Planet Dirt. We’re just too _important_ and too _good_ at our jobs.”

Beelzebub frowned, and the flies around them buzzed anxiously at the change in mood.

“Exactly,” Beelzebub retorted sharply, “Let them try to reassign us – we’re too proficient at our jobs – too _irreplaceable_.”

“Too beloved,” Gabriel flashed a smile that was as blinding as the sun, “Have you ever met an Archangel as charming, as impossibly competent as spreading goodwill and charity across the Earth?”

“Have you ever met a Demon as awe-inspiringly terrifying as I am,” Beelzebub shot back, and stretched out as the simple self-congratulatory pride reverberated across their body, “As capable of causing untold devastation?”

Gabriel grinned, “So why are we worrying then?”

They met eyes and looked away quickly.

“So, what are we then,” Beelzebub responded, “You want to be Best Friends and eat Thai Food on Wednesdays that aren’t public holidays?”

“I want real estate,” Gabriel responded, with a cocky smile, “Aziraphale and Crowley own a house they stock full of incomprehensibly gross matter and pornography – why can’t we?”

Beelzebub stared back, “Why?”

Gabriel’s smile slipped a little bit, “Well, that’s what they do right? That’s the next step. Crowley suggested we get bunk beds.”

Beelzebub squinted their eyes, “Gabriel, they’re _fucking_.”

“No, they aren’t,” Gabriel responded, “They’re not _married_, Beelzebub.”

“They don’t have to be married to _fuck_,” Beelzebub insisted, “Because Hastur and Ligur have been _fucking_ for centuries and they sure haven’t been met in holy matrimony.”

Gabriel squinted his eyes, “No, I know what I’m talking about, they don’t even have _children_. Gross. I have _primary_ sources.”

“Explain,” Beelzebub flatly responded.

Gabriel reached into his pocket and pulled out an impossibly large book, “I got this pornography from Aziraphale – it explains it all.”

Beelzebub’s eyebrows drew together as they snapped it from his hand and leafed through it with increasing interest.

“This is trash,” Beelzebub responded in rapturous delight, “ _‘It is impossible to have sex before marriage’_, _‘All sex is for procreation’_ – Gabriel this is _garbage_.”

-

The Archangel Michael was not currently having such a great existence. She was smiling, as broadly as she could while digging through a true biblical mountain of paperwork. Still, Sandalphon was letting out little huffs of frustration that was interrupting her workflow. Worse, Uriel had decided he wasn’t currently interested in updating the Kanban board as he completed tasks, and Michael had colour-coded the tasks.

“Michael,” Uriel said, “I have created a small presentation to show you that Kanban methodology is not as an effective project management tool as utilising Waterfall.”

“The Kanban is working perfectly,” Michael insisted, “Look, I have colour-coded all aspects of this court case.”

“We need a holistic view of this project that cannot be accurately depicted in colour-coding,” Uriel replied, “I have created a 35-page project plan that will fix these gaps in planning.”

“I prefer Agile,” Sandalphon interjected, “For optimal performance.”

“The Kanban stays,” Michael insisted, “I have selected all the colours in existence and allocated them to specific tasks in order to help Gabriel. You can start with the puce task.”

“Gabriel cannot be helped with purple tones,” Uriel insisted loudly, “And I will not allow Gabriel to suffer from hellish emotions like sad if we lose this case and Raphael is not released from their employment contract with Hell.”

Michael pursed her lips, and Sandalphon looked nervously between the two Archangels.

“Perhaps this calls for a hybrid model? We can launch a scoping document into creating a Kanban-Waterfall hybrid model?” Sandalphon voiced, “To provide a purpose-made project management framework?”

Michael brightened, but not because she thought Sandalphon had ever had a great idea, “Please do Sandalphon. You can have the next half an hour to work on it.”

“Thank you,” Sandalphon responded, “I’ll get right on that.”

Sandalphon was gone in a flash of feathers, while Michael turned back to her colour co-ordinated Kanban board and hummed tunes of praise loudly. Uriel tapped on her keypad with her heavy-handed fingers.

“I’m going to work on an Angelic re-education course,” Uriel decided, “So when Beelzebub returns to us, we can help their re-acceptance back into the heavenly hosts.”

“That is perfectly kind and thoughtful of you,” Michael said, a little impressed, “I’ll help by mapping out the required coursework on my Kanban.”

-

Lord of the Files Dagon was not having a great day. While Hastur and Ligur were off preparing for the court case of the eternity by preparing the swords and pulling axes out of whatever demons were currently using them, Dagon was left to prepare the traditional _‘aha fuck you’_ speech.

That was, all great monstrous events – like stealing an Archangel from Heaven to give to your Demon Boss – really ought to require a real gloat of a speech. There was no real evidence to support this, but Dagon believed it was a fact that when Satan himself left Heaven, he moonwalked to Hell while yelling a speech that made God herself weep.

Dagon, not quite a wordsmith, as much a word sledgehammer, simply had written _‘Get wrecked Michael’_ across the page in ugly orange ink that just did not sit right on the paper. One of the lesser demons, who certainly had never mattered in their entire lives, was quaking on the floor while painting a ‘Welcome home Gabriel’ banner that Dagon intended to pin-up above Beelzebub’s desk before the boss came victoriously home, war bride in hand.

“It’s Gabriel with a G,” Dagon snapped down at the poorly rendered banner, “Not with a _‘B’_.”

The demon quaked even harder and spilled the black oil paint across the floor. _‘Welcome Home Babriel’_ stared back at Dagon in letters that were clearly this demon’s first attempt at letter writing. He black eyes met Dagon’s as he shook, then he scampered to his feet, smearing black paint even further across the floor.

“_Go_,” Dagon snapped, as the unpaid intern scampered out so quickly that he left black paw prints in his wake.

“_Ugh_,” Dagon huffed, and then returned to her notepad with a celestial-sized headache building behind her eyes. With a frown, she lifted her phone and peered at the screen in growing disappointment. Beelzebub hadn’t responded to any of her text messages – and Gabriel hadn’t responded to the series of photos Dagon had sent him, of her rather sizable medieval torture instruments.

Dagon huffed and took a swig from her finest thermos, only to discover that it was sweet unfermented juice. The sickly sweet and fresh taste slipped down her throat like a poison, and her headache was suddenly as loud as a supernova. With a frown, Dagon snapped a photo of her pen and shot it off to Gabriel with a half-hearted threat of bodily harm.

And then she waited.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am posting a little at a time because I don't have time to edit the whole piece in one sitting. :)


End file.
